


1533

by Plenoptic



Series: Si Guarda Al Fine [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 03:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3962170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are all that remain, but they are not remnants. Post AC:R</p>
            </blockquote>





	1533

**Author's Note:**

> The random drabble to end all drabbles.

Flavia Auditore dawdled longer than usual before the mirror, biting her lip as she pawed at her hair, trying to tame her mane into something resembling femininity. Her mother always cooed that she had her father’s hair—thick and dark and Florentine—but Flavia wished desperately that she could have inherited Sofia’s sleek red curls. At least they seemed manageable. Her aunt Claudia had shown her more than once how to use special oils to calm the wild Auditore ringlets, but Flavia failed miserably on her own.

She gave up and looked down at her clothes, brushing away dust and smoothing wrinkles. She’d picked a fine summer dress with a pretty yellow pattern; even she had to admit she looked very much like a girl. Pleased, she slid on her boots and went downstairs. Her mother and brother sat in the kitchen.

“Flavia, _tesoro,_ give this to your brother?” Sofia asked, balancing a plate laden with bread and cheese on one hand while stirring a pot full of soup over the fire with the other. “Oh, quickly—”

Flavia hurried forward and caught the plate, placing it on the table and ruffling Marcello’s hair. “How goes it, brother?”

“Don’t,” he said irritably, swatting at her hand and scowling up at her. “I’ve a headache.”

“Mm? Too much of a headache to come to the farm with me?”

He brightened at once and spun in his chair. “Mama, can I?”

Sofia straightened, wiping her hands on her apron, and frowned at her daughter. “Will Marietta be there?”

Flavia had quite no idea. “Of course.”

“And you’ll bring him home if the boys get too rough?”

Marcello groaned and Flavia released a long-suffering sigh. “ _Yes_ , Mama.”

Sofia’s mouth twitched upward into a grin, and she pinched her daughter’s cheek. “Alright. But home before sundown!”

“It’s not even noon!” Flavia said, exasperated, and offered her brother a hand. “Come on, Marcello.”

“I’m not a child,” he grumped at her, but she grasped his hand anyway, smiling when he continued to fuss at her. No, at fourteen he was no longer a child, but he would always be her baby brother.

The Tuscan sun shone bright overhead, prompting another round of grumbles from Marcello as the siblings stepped outside. Flavia stretched in the light, flexing her hands open and closed, basking in the warmth on her skin. Marcello tapped an impatient toe.

“Come on, sis.”

“Sorry. Marcello, do I look alright?”

He frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

“Do I look pretty?”

“You’re my sister,” he retorted, indifferent, and started off down the road, hands tucked into the pockets of his hose. Flavia sighed and followed. “Um, happy birthday. By the way. Mama didn’t forget. She’s just going to surprise you tonight.”

“I know,” Flavia said, laughing. “She does the same thing every year.”

Marcello blew a thick lock of hair out of his eyes. According to Aunt Claudia, he looked just like his father at that age. He already had the build of a bull and the temper to match, and already Flavia caught her little brother’s eyes affixed to girls. “Well, act surprised.”

“I will.” Flavia looped her arm through his. They ambled along the road in no great hurry, enjoying the sunshine and the hum of insects. An old man who lived down the road passed them on his mule and waved. There was only one other palazzo in sight besides their own; it stood just beyond a long patch of olive trees, nestled comfortably in a little vineyard. Flavia reached for the olive trees as they passed, stroking their smooth leaves. These trees were as comfortable and familiar to her as her mother’s face, her brother’s laugh.

“Remember when were little?” Marcello asked. “And we used to play hide-and-seek in the trees? You broke some of the branches once, and Mama almost fainted.”

Flavia winced and patted a tree in apology. “Well, they are very old.”

The palazzo was right where it had been for her entire life, warm and small and comfortable. The grape vines wound their way up the sides, twisting over the roof in a gentle dance, and the breeze rustled the leaves on the trees. She heard the boys before she saw them, shouting and laughing in the back, their voices carrying on the wind. Marcello quickened his pace, disappearing around the corner, and Flavia followed at a walk.

She turned the corner just in time to see Lodovico Machiavelli jump to his feet, panting and winded, his handsome features stretched into a broad grin. He planted his hands on his hips and grinned down at his older brother, still sprawled in the grass.

“I win.”

Bernardo lifted his head and scowled. “You cheated.”

“All’s fair in war, brother.”

“What about in love?”

Lodovico shrugged his broad shoulders. “I wouldn’t know. Best two of three?”

“No, I’m spent.” Bernardo got to his feet, brushing leaves from his dark hair, and indicated their guest with a jerk of his thumb. “Fight Marcello.”

“Aye, Marcello!” Lodo said, rolling his shoulders and shooting the Auditore boy his manic grin. “Want a go?”

“No,” Flavia interjected, glaring at her brother when he began to protest. “Mama said no rough-housing.”

“Mama said nothing _too_ rough,” Marcello whined.

“Cheer up, lad, maybe a fight with Totto is more your speed,” Lodo said, snickering.

“Hey.” Totto Machiavelli stepped out onto the lawn, swinging an arm around Flavia’s shoulders and frowning at his older brother. “I hope you don’t mean to imply that I’m best suited to fight a fourteen-year-old boy.”

“No, brother dear, he means that little Marcello’s just going to have to deal with being the baby,” Bernardo said, and ruffled Marcello’s dark hair. “Don’t worry, lad, Lodo will be old and frail by the time you’re a man grown.”

Lodovico scoffed. “I won’t ever be old. I intend to die young and glorious.”

His older brother gave him a long-suffering look. “Just don’t open your mouth anymore, shitwit.”

Flavia bit her lip to keep from laughing at Lodovico’s affronted look and peeked up at Totto. “Um. Where’s Guido?”

“In the study.” He smiled down at her. “Happy birthday. You want me to fetch him for you as a gift?”

“No, thank you. I’ll find him. Will you keep Marcello from fighting?”

Totto bobbed his head up and down. According to Marietta, he’d inherited his uncle’s sweet charm; Totto the first had died when Flavia was just a child—before her own father passed, even—but something about his nephew’s gentle nature invoked a warm nostalgia in her.

She left the boys to their play and climbed the little hill behind the house. The study was hidden by an ancient stand of olive trees; when the sun set, the trees filtered the light, casting speckled shadows over the one-room hut. Flavia hesitated a little at the door—knocking somehow seemed an insult to the sweet silence, but this study was a sacred place, and she always felt like an intruder. At length she tapped her fingertips against the door and pushed it open without waiting for a reply.

Guido cut so familiar a figure in the bright sunlight that her heart ached. He was hunched over the desk, his head in his hands, brows furrowed while his eyes flicked back and forth across the pages of the book open before him. Flavia shut the door quietly and stepped up to his side, peering over his shoulder when he took no notice of her. A faint smile tugged at her mouth.

“Livy again?”

The third Machiavelli son jumped and swore when he hit his knees on the underside of the desk. “ _Ouch_!—Flavia? When did you come in?”

“Just now.” She bit her lip to keep from laughing while he rubbed his legs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I mean, well, it’s alright,” he said quickly, and his cheeks flushed pink. He dropped her gaze, looking back down at his book. “Um, yes. Livy again.”

“It seems it’s always Livy with you.”

“I was trying to—answer some questions.” He closed the book and placed it on top of another, a title she knew well—the spine simply read _Discorsi_. Guido laced his hands in his lap, frowning at the books. Their covers had once been beaten and worn from use, but Guido had replaced both over the last two years, mending and rebinding the books with all the care of a parent tucking in an infant. “I wish I could just… ask him.”

Flavia’s heart wrenched, and she pulled up a chair, taking Guido’s hands in hers. He finally looked at her, and though he wasn’t crying, she recognized the loneliness in his eyes. “I’m sorry, _mio caro_. I know it’s hard.” She lifted a hand to cradle his cheek. “I know how terribly you miss him.”

Guido shrugged and mirrored her touch, brushing a thumb over her mouth, and her heart leapt against her ribs. “I know you know. It’s the only thing that gives me strength sometimes.” His gaze softened and flickered down toward her lips. “Happy birthday. I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” she said, somewhat breathless, and couldn’t wait a moment longer. She slid her hand into his hair, tangling her fingers in the raven strands and pulling him close. The world ground to a halt as they kissed. His hands found her waist, wrapped around her back and tugged her to him, his mouth opening under hers, and the taste of his tongue felt like coming home. Flavia squeezed him, melting against him, murmuring a helpless protest when he drew his mouth away to trail gentle kisses from her nose to her brow.

“Not now,” he murmured, but he let her kiss him again and run her hands through his hair. She had almost climbed into his lap, pressing him back against the desk, and he laughed against her mouth when she grasped his hands and planted them back on her waist. “Flavia…”

“Hush,” she whispered, fingertips mapping his face, his neck, the angles of his shoulders.

“Your mother wouldn’t look kindly upon me for this.”

“Nor would yours upon me.” But then he kissed her anyway, and it was hungry and tasted like want, and she was so helpless against him. “Guido, please meet me in the olive stand tonight? Please?”

He sighed, cradling her close and resting his head against her shoulder, content to let her play with his hair. They’d made love precious two times—once in her bed, and they’d giggled and kissed to stay quiet while curious hands explored one another with youthful jubilance, the euphoria of first love; and once in the river, and that had been deep and carnal, the first time she’d felt like a woman, with this Machiavelli boy’s hands on her skin and his grey eyes on hers, his mouth whispering soft words of love against her lips while he made her his.

“You know I don’t want to sleep together again until we’re wed.”

Flavia pouted at him, playing with the ties of his vest. “Not even for my birthday?” But she smiled to let him know she meant it in jest; she loved his dedication to his personal pact, respected that this was how he wanted to show that he was committed to her.

“No. I will kiss you, though—” and his lips touched hers, teasing, “until you’re breathless.”

She giggled and brushed his hair off his brow. He looked just like his father, but he had his mother’s wide smile, and, like her, had never been able to keep his emotions from showing on his face. Flavia traced his features, picked his feelings out—laughter on his cheeks, love in his eyes, grief etched across his brow, lust on his mouth, determination in his chin and jaw.

The boy she meant to marry kissed her once more, an achingly gentle caress of his lips across hers, and they stayed close after they parted, breathing the same air.

“I was four when you were born,” he said, apparently out of thin air, but she was sure that the statement lined up well with the internal narrative that always seemed to be running in his head. “You were the ugliest thing I’d ever seen.”

Flavia burst into laughter, cupping his neck and nuzzling his nose. “You are so rude.”

He smiled and shrugged. “It’s true. My father was holding me when Ezio brought you to meet us. I stared at you and said ‘Papa, what’s _that?’_ and he replied, ‘That’s our mentor’s spawn. And female, thank God, we don’t need any more Auditore boys.’”

“He did not say that! And you were four, how would you remember?”

Guido grinned. “I remember everything.”

She rolled her eyes and reluctantly stepped back, taking his hands and tugging him toward the door. “Come on. I left my brother with yours.”

“Oh, no. Not a wise choice.” He gave her his arm and opened the door, and they stepped out into the sunlight together. He kissed his fingertips and saluted the sun as they walked, a ritual she always noted, one he always performed when he left the study. She had asked him just once what it meant, and he had smiled that sad, gentle smile and said “It’s to help Father rest easy.”

They rejoined Guido’s brothers in the yard, and he surreptitiously released her arm, though Bernardo shot them a wry, knowing look as they approached. Guido bit his thumb at him and his older brother smiled.

“You found him,” Totto said brightly, dodging Guido’s half-hearted attempt to ruffle his hair. “Did you wish Flavia happy birthday?”

“Yes, did you?”

“Of course! Mama made a cake, Flavia.”

“Mother,” Guido corrected gently—Totto was eighteen and too old to still be calling her that—but his brother ignored him.

“Is _Madonna_ Sofia coming?”

“I hadn’t asked her.”

“Well, you’re all staying for supper, right?” Bernardo said, releasing Lodovico from a headlock (the younger man rubbed his neck, grumbling about a do-over). “It wouldn’t be a Machiavelli birthday without, you know, all of us.”

“I’m an Auditore,” she reminded him, and he huffed and waved a hand.

“For _now_.”

Guido flushed—even the tips of his ears turned red—and he excused himself in a mumble, stepping into the house while Flavia attempted to keep a straight face, ignoring her little brother’s questioning look. “Well, since we’re invited—Marcello, will you run home and tell Mama?”

“Ugh. But it’s _hot_. Why can’t you go?”

“I’m going to help _Madonna_ Marietta with supper.”

“I’ll go with you, Lolo,” Lodovico offered, and snickered when Marcello kicked his shin.

“Don’t call me that! I could call you Lolo, too!”

“Lodo and Lolo! I like the sound of that.”

They ambled off toward the street, laughing, and Totto decided to tag along after them, leaving Bernardo and Flavia alone. She smiled a little, knowing painfully well how awkward it must look, and began to head for the house, but he spoke.

“Flavia?—wait.”

She halted, turning to face him with her hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”

Bernardo tucked his hands into the pockets of his vest, tongue in cheek. His father’s death had left him in charge of the family estates and wealth (what little remained), but he’d grown handsomely into his new responsibilities. Flavia knew he was wickedly clever, as were all the Machiavelli children, and though trouble with finances had always plagued his father and grandfather, Bernardo the younger was good with the abacus and had been able to talk down a great deal of the family’s debt. If there was any debt owed, Flavia had once heard him say hotly to a cowering Signoria member, it was to _Messer_ Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli, who had risked the wrath of the mad monk Savonarola and the tyrannical King Charles to see Florence grow into a republic, who had bled and suffered at the hands of the Medici, who had offered them his help in spite of their betrayal, who had loved Florence and its people to his dying breath.

Bernardo Machiavelli, Flavia thought with fierce pride, was every bit the man his father had wanted him to be.

But now his handsome features were twisted into a frown, and his normally bright eyes were darkened by worry. She stepped down from the porch and joined him on the lawn, taking his hands.

“Bernardo, you know you’re a brother to me. I knew you before I even knew Marcello. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

He sighed. She liked the way the wind played with his curls. “Do you love him? Guido, I mean.”

“Yes,” she answered. No hesitation. There never was, not when it came to Guido. “I love him.”

“He means to marry you.”

“And I mean to marry him. He is all I could ever want in a husband, and more.”

“I just—” He winced, shifting his weight on his heels. “He has a delicate heart. I’ve never seen him in love before. I don’t know how he’ll… if there’s any doubt in you, Flavia, please just—”

“Bernardo,” she said, squeezing his hands, forcing him to look at her. “I _love_ him.”

“But… Guido’s never been an easy man to be around. He’s withdrawn. He—” Bernardo stopped again, struggling, and his gaze flickered toward their father’s study. “He spends more time there than here with us. I don’t know how to—I know my father loved each of us the same. But he and Guido were close. I don’t know what my brother lost when Papa died. I don’t think his heart will ever be the same.”

“I don’t need for it to be,” Flavia said quietly. “Bernardo. The day my papa died, I lost my dearest friend in this entire world. I thought I would live with that emptiness for the rest of my life. But Guido mended those wounds. I can’t promise to do the same for him, but… but I can promise to try. And I can promise to love him, even if his heart never heals.”

Bernardo regarded her for a moment, and then his eyes softened. He grunted and pulled her into a hug, kissing the top of her head. “Good. That’s all I ask. Please take good care of him. I worry for the little fool.”

“Don’t. I’ll look after him.”

He smiled and ruffled her hair—which had taken her so long to perfect—and led her into the house. Its sights and smells were warm and familiar; Flavia had spent more time here than in her own home. Ezio and Niccolò had whittled away their twilight years in this house, playing with their children, sipping at wine and arguing over whose vineyard grew better, lamenting the state of Florentine affairs, talking about the places they’d been and the wonderful things they’d seen. Flavia had passed many a happy evening on one or the other’s knee, listening to their stories with rapt attention. She paused on her way to the kitchen, letting Bernardo get ahead of her, to peer into the sitting room. Their chairs were empty now; the hearth was cold.

“Flavia!” Baccina Machiavelli crashed into her, breaking her roughly from her musings, and hugged her. “Happy birthday! You’re _twenty!_ You’re so lucky! I wish I were twenty!”

“You’re only a year her junior, sis—rest easy,” Guido said, amused, gently extracting his sister so Flavia could breathe. “Mother wants help in the kitchen. Something about the chicken being dry.”

“Oh, bother,” Baccina huffed, wrinkling her nose. She kissed Flavia’s cheek and bounded away.

Guido sighed in her wake, shaking his head. “Where she gets the energy…” He turned his gaze on Flavia and took her hand, loosely intertwining their fingers. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” She paused. “No. This room makes me sad.”

His jaw tightened, and he nodded, looking at his father’s empty chair. “It’s—difficult to think about. Especially after all the stories. You know? La Volpe, Leonardo, Antonio, Bartolomeo, Caterina—your father. Mine. What’s left of the brotherhood now?”

His mother was only a room away, and so were his silly brothers, but Flavia stepped close to him and wound her arms around his waist. “There’s us, Guido. Papa and Niccolò didn’t want to leave assassins, or avengers; they left us. Children. _We’re_ the legacy they wanted.” She snuggled closer to him, closing her eyes, listening to the soft, steady thump of his heart against his ribs. “You have to believe that.”

His arms encircled her, his mouth brushing the top of her head. “Let me ask you something.”

“Sure.”

“Do you know where the Apple is?”

Flavia tipped her head back, searching his face. His expression was unreadable. She didn’t know what answer he wanted, so she told him the truth. “No. I did ask. Papa kissed my cheeks and swore he would never, ever tell me.”

His eyes softened, and his grip on her tightened. “Good. Let’s go help with supper.” He drew her close to kiss her, and they spoke of it no more.

 


End file.
